Chance studied the town, interested in themes and personality more than tactical matters. It appeared simple, quaint even. The people who belonged there, he guessed, were likely practical and simple folks. They probably held their religious beliefs strongly, and thus might have a few quirky habits or practices among them. He hoped they would be tolerant of outsiders who didn't know their ways. He wanted to share this insight with Trista, but it would probably sound odd or even offensive to the boy and his father.

He glanced at the boy. Whether or not the other parts were added didn't matter. Talk of wheels of fire and metal and such deserved their attention. Luckily, their mission lacked urgency.

"I doubt my storytelling needs any stretching," he scoffs, with a playful frown.

He leans back on the frame of the boat. "So is Trista your full name, or just the familiar part?"

"He's always been just the godspeaker, so far's I knows." Sam says, thoughtfully.

Then his father, quiet for most of the trip, interrupts, "Now, that's not all true, though Sam likely wouldn't know any better.  I can recall a ways back, 'fore he came ter be the godspeaker, his name was Steele.  Mason Steele.  His mom still lives over ter the west end o' town."

The boy looks shocked, "Ol' Ma Steele's the godspeaker's mom?  I heard she had a son once, by Billy tol' me as how she must've ate the child, 'cause he weren't about no more."

"See, son, that's what happens if y'all keep the company of fools like that Billy Saul.  Just gonna end up with a head full o' nonsense."  The man shakes his head, though he is smiling.

It isn't evasion which hangs Trista's mouth slightly open as she obviously searches for an answer for Chance. Perplexed eyes fix on the man's shades. Nobody has ever asked her that. Ever. At least, since she dropped her last name all those years ago.

Before she can save herself with an answer, Sam and his father tag-team answer her. She allows the distraction to turn away from Chance and smile at the father-son team. “Ah but stories of mother's eating children? That's an attention-getter. Good to know it isn't so, isn't it?” A warm smile for the boy prefaces her eyes turning back to Chance.

“Once upon a time, I had a last name. I dropped it years ago.” Trista tilts her head back as her curious eyes pierce through the dark glasses, “I could ask the same question of you. In fact, I've never met a 'Chance' before. Is that your real name?”

The boat glides smoothly up to the jetty, and Sam's father brings it to a gentle halt with practiced ease.  He and the boy move to tie up, and then the man turns to face Chance.

"Well, this is it.  Now I'll take the money, seein's how the the job's done, fair'n'square." he says, with a smile.

In the town, a bell starts ringing.

"If'n y'all were wantin' ter talk with Mason Steele, it might be best ter get some grub, an' wait a while.  Sounds like somethin's happenin' at the chapel."  He glances up at the sky, "It's a mite early fer the evenin' service, so it mus' be somethin' special.  No idea what, though."

"It's the Feast of Aaron today." Sam offers an explanation, "So it'll be the Afternoon Sermon... the one 'bout the slayin' o' the Ice Beast, an' how Holy Aaron got blinded."

"Ah... Aaron is it?  I don't know where this year's gone, Sam." the boatman shakes his head, "The days're just flashing past."

The boy says nothing further, instead lowering his head, and returning to his carving.

As they approach, Chance steals a glance at the town. His eyes sweep casually over the scattered, single-story wood houses. He likes what he sees in that brief glance. It has a feel of comfort and easiness. He's always liked the rural communities, with homes that seem to have been tossed out to land where they might, like a farmer scattering fat pumpkin seeds. He guessed there were less than a hundred or them.

He turns back as the father and son speak. They share an easy comfort, one that he never knew as a child. He admires the boy. He's bright, with an ear for stories, and--it seems--a gift for dreams, too. Chance wouldn't be surprised if this boy were to be the next godspeaker, someday. And he carries the dreams well, Chance thinks to himself. Not everyone does. Some would be driven mad by them.

So the current godspeaker still has living family in town. That might be good to know, though he doubted they would find need to disturb the man's mother. Still, Chance had a long habit of memorizing details when he entered a new place.

"Chance?" he smiles. "Well, it's short for Chauncey. Lord Chauncey Trafford, actually." Funny how one's own name could feel like old clothes: worn, too small, unfashionable, awkward, disrepaired. "I was raised in a place called Azoth. Chivalry was a big deal there, as was the gentlemanly duel, but they had more technology than most places I've visited since. That place just never seemed to fit me right, you know?"

With a slight shrug, he adds, "But that was a long time ago. It's just Chance now. I hope you don't feel I was prying. Trista is a lovely name."

He turns to listen to the father and son speaking. A man named Aaron blinded? Irony abounds.

"That sermon might be worth hearing," he says to Trista. "But on the other hand, I think I could use a drink. What do you prefer?"

Trista steps from the ferry, turning once she lands on solid ground. “Thank you for the lift.” Glancing back at the sound of bells, she listens with interest to the impromptu sermon, or perhaps not so impromptu. Ice beast? To Trista, it doesn't tie in with the wheels of flame and blade.

She gives the father a smile, “Thanks, maybe we'll check it out. Take care of Sam,” her smile faded, replaced with absolute seriousness. A child with that kind of knowledge...

Once Chance pays the man, Trista falls in beside him as they begin a casual pace toward the town. Surprised eyes dart to the man as if to exclaim, “Lord?!” He doesn't look much like a Lord, nor does he feel like one. At least, not the kind of Lords she's met in her life. There's a story there, and she looks forward to discovering it.

Which is odd in itself. For so many eons, she's avoided forming bonds. Then she meets this odd band and seems to be forming them left and right. Berd, Devlin.... I wonder  how the little bird is doing? And now the Lord brings up getting a drink which sounds like heaven. A drink and casual talk, relaxing with a friend.

Or not-so-total stranger. Whatever.

There just a hint of color in her cheeks after the compliment and she looks off in the direction of the church, sighing, “I'd love a drink. I don't know though, in a small place like this, there might not be anything open during a sermon.” She cocks an amused eyebrow up at the shaded man.

“But I doubt we'd get the chance to speak with Steele directly after a sermon either, not with people hanging around to thank him. Maybe take a rain check on that drink?”

The town is a jumble of narrow twisting streets centred on a an area of packed earth, which doubtless serves as a market, on appropriate days.  The buildings are low, cottages of wood, for the most part, topped by thatched rooves.   Most of the wood is painted painted a dark red.  Windows have glass in them, rippled and bubbled, and with a yellow tinge to it.

Only a few buildings have more than a single storey.  In those cases, the lower storey is stone, with the upper storey of wood.

There is a tavern on one edge of the open area, and another large building opposite it.  The chapel, the tallest building in the whole town, is easy to find, with it's high wooden spire rising well above the other structures.

There are a lot of people about, and most seem to be heading towards the chapel.  The sound of the bell continues to summon them.

Chance meets her surprised look with a smirk and a shrug. He mumbles, "It was a long time ago."

"Sure, a rain check is probably wise. Interesting that the tavern is just across from the church, though. Maybe it's not such a bad place to wait for him, but business first--or you'd never get me back on task."

So different from the others. So casual and relaxed. Chance has never met Urgency in Trista's eyes. Though that's probably just who he is now. Too bad Urgency has decided to tag along with them, prodding Trista to witness this bound-to-be-boring sermon.

A spontaneously brilliant smile lights up the woman's face, “When I'm ready to forget everything, I'll remember to seek you out.” A flash of mischief sparks in her stormy eyes.

“Come on, we can always slip out if it proves unbearable.” A hand reaches out, almost slipping into Chance's hand as if to grab it and pull him along. But it changes direction at the last moment, rising to push hair out of her face, a look of self-surprise flashes across her eyes. It's one thing to be loosening up, it's another to feel too comfortable.

More subdued, a touch of embarrassment marks her body language, and she quietly says, “We can get a seat in the back,” as they draw near the church.

The chapel door stands wide, greeting worshippers.

The interior of the structure is very plain.  Simple stone and wood, and little in the way of decoration.  There are windows, at the far end of the single room, tall and narrow, each with numerous small panes of thick glass.  Candles are everywhere, supplementing the dim, yellowish light which filters in through the windows.

Below the windows is an altar, draped in white cloth, a little frayed and faded, and clearly patched.  On the altar are three wooden figures, each a couple of feet tall, two men and a woman.  The men are both armed, one with a sword, the other with a large hammer.  The swordsman's face is covered by a large helm, the other man's face is bare.

The woman is not armed, and her hands are stretched out to the side.  She appears to be holding a hoop, or large wheel, of some description, between her hands.

There are a twenty or thirty people seated on the pews, facing the altar, most with their heads bowed.

Behind the altar, a rope leads up to the ceiling, and there is a young man pulling at it quite zealously, causing a bell, presumably in the spire above, to chime.  A second, older man is with him, dressed in a dark yellow robe, and leaning on a cane.  That one glances towards the door as Trista and Chance enter, then hobbles towards them, beaming.

"Welcome.  Welcome.  We seldom see strangers at chapel... please come in and make yourselves comfortable, though that may be difficult.  We are a poor community, and the pews are hard.  The service will start shortly."

"I am the godspeaker of this township."  He looks down, and gestures towards the robe, "Obviously."

Chance painted a perfunctory smile on his face and scanned the room, taking in the windows, the altar, the statues, and the people. He waited for the robed man to approach.

"Godspeaker," Chance greets with an incline of his head and a cozy smile. "My name is Chance, and this is my wife, Trista." He paused and turned the smile her way, gaging her reaction to the fib. Not that a fib was needed, but stories and tales were the ground on which Chance walked--and a fib was just a story, to him. (He preferred the stories be in song, but they were stories nonetheless.)

"I hope you don't think us too odd, but we decided to travel far and wide for our honeymoon, and our footsteps have brought us here. We were hoping to talk to you after the sermon? Our religion is slightly different where we come from--we have traveled very far--but many things are familiar, as well. I guess, well, I guess I was a bit intrigued, is all."

The godspeaker looks from Chance, to Trista, and back again.  Still with his broad smile.  "Of course, I'd be glad to talk to you.  We're a little off the trodden path here, and it's good to talk with travellers, if only to find out what's going on in the rest of the world."

"I get a letter from the High Speaker at Whithaven, every month, but it doesn't deal with secular matters very often.  A little news would keep people interested in seeing me, for a month or two, if I ration it carefully."

At that moment, he catches sight of a group of people entering the building, a somewhat rotund man in his forties, perhaps, a stick-thin woman, of similar age, three younger women, one of them accompanied by a young, nervous-looking man.  All are well dressed.

"Ah... excuse me." the godspeaker says, "I need to speak to these people, but I will see you again, after the service."

And then he is gone, hand extended towards the older man, in greeting, leaving Chance and his (newly acquired) wife to find themselves somewhere to sit...

News from abroad? Chance suppresses a near-grimace. That might be a problem, really. Well, he would just have to fake his way through it, just like he did most everything else in his life.

He nodded amiably as the godspeaker moved off, and glanced at Trista to see how she was doing. He didn't favor the idea of sitting through a sermon, but he'd been through worse.

Trista's not a religious person. How could she be when she knows what she knows? But this church of simple wood and simple people is to her liking. If she believed in a God, she'd want to chat with him here, if not in a bar or under the desert stars.

As the old priest makes his slow way toward them, Trista studies his kind face. She smiles and nods a greeting, but remains quiet as Chance introduces them. Apparently, they've gotten married somewhere along the way. There's a very slight eyebrow lift, but Trista covers it with a glance about the room and contemplates if that was Chance's way of testing her resolve to keep a straight face. Fortunately, she's dealt with many spontaneous lies in her former life and handles this one fairly well. All things considered.

What she really wants to do is break out in laughter and slam back a shot of something ungodly.

As the man leaves, Trista quickly gets in a, “Thank you, we look forward to talking with you later.”

Once the man is away, Trista meets Chance's glance and notes, “I guess I lost my wedding band,” a glance across the man's hands, “seems you did, too.” She almost holds back a grin, but doesn't succeed.

She doesn't relish the sermon either, but it would be rude to leave after they showed interest. Trista nods toward the back row, “Looks like we could have it all to ourselves.” After stepping into the pew, she sits, shifting the machete strapped around her thigh with practice ease.
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Sat 19 Jan 2008.

"Lost?" Chance asks with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

The guitar slides down and forward, coming to comfortable rest under his arm. He glances around to see if anyone notices as his fingers touch steel strings, gently bumping them causing soft, barely audible notes. He leaves plenty of space between the whispered notes.

His eyes glaze a moment, making him look lost in thought.

"Or...." He holds up his hand, balled into a fist. He turns it over revealing a pair of matching wedding bands. They are white gold and decorated with a strange pattern, a sort of jagged Celtic ravel. "Just misplaced?"

He half smiles, one cheek dimpling more than the other. "Good point, by the way. I guess if I make a cover story, I should make it look good. They won't last beyond this world. The style okay?"

His other hand continues to embrace the guitar, lovingly gracing the strings to produce the occasional whispered notes.
This message was last edited by the player at 11:02, Sat 19 Jan 2008.

The quiet notes are lost in the sound of the bell, the shuffling of feet, the rustling of clothes, and the softly spoken words of greeting as the chapel fills up.

Before long the pews, just as uncomfortable as the godspeaker had implied, are about three quarters occupied, and the bell stops tolling.  The godspeaker moves to the front of the room, close to the altar, and the congregation climb to their feet.  The man turns to face the faithful, raising his hands in some sort of ritual gesture.

The audience sit, and the godspeaker starts to speak.  "In those days there stood a city, at the foot of a great mountain, and the people of that city lived in fear, for they were sore harried by giants and unwholesome beasts."

"Now, it was in the winter, that there came to the city the Hero Questors.  The Beast was there, and its Servant.  The Sorceress, and the Fool.  The Wolf Queen, the Dark Mirror, and Holy Aaron."

"The enemy stood before the walls of the city, and Holy Aaron did reach forth and break the dark magics of the giants.  Then did he lead the warriors of the city, and they stood upon the field and did battle with the giants and their minions."

"Holy Aaron was triumphant, though at great cost, for one of the giants did strike out his right eye.  Thus are we shown that victory is not always easy.  It must be striven for, at whatever cost to ourselves."


The service continues, with song, and prayer, for perhaps an hour, during which time the pews do not grow any more comfortable.  Finally though, it is over, and the townsfolk start to file out.  The godspeaker moves to the door to wish them farewell, and when all are eventually gone, he returns to Chance and Trista.

"So... did you enjoy the service, my friends?"

Church, Chance thinks to himself. Well, this is a hell of a first date you've taken the lass on, Chauncey. Or would this be the honeymoon?

Other than fidgeting to adjust which buttock took the brunt of the pew's unyielding surface, he did his best to remain calm and still through the service. Midway through, he revealed the result of the second part of his toying with the strings. From beneath his jacket he produced small skin, ostensibly just a water skin to observers, but with much better fare inside. After a healthy sip, he passed the skin to Trista. After all, wine was appropriate for services, wasn't it? Well, some religions drank wine in church. He was sure he'd heard that at some point. (He would have conjured something stronger into the skin, but he was afraid stronger alcohol might ruin the skin. And a tin might be too obvious.)

The interesting tale was not lost on him, though. Holy Aaron? These people really needed to update their phone directory. He listened, hoping to glean any information he might. Of course, he had to be cautious. The boy had said that many parts had been filled in by mortal hands. He mulled over the other names given the Questors: beast, servant, dark mirror, Wolf Queen, sorceress and fool. Some were rather obvious. With others, the title provided an interesting insight.



I'd rather have shoved a power drill up my nose, but "Just wonderful," Chance grins. He snatches the godspeaker's hand and clasps it firmly with his. "I dare say it's been many years since I've been so intrigued by a service."

He takes in a deep breath and glances around. "Say, is there a place we could talk in private. There are some matters of import I'd like to discuss. It'll be brief, I promise."

Intrigued, Trista watches something going on with Chance as the mischief in his eye gives way to a glazing, and he seems to absently creates a few lonely notes of music. Then the bands appear.

Magic.

That's the only word Trista has for it, from Devlin's shape-changing to Chance's creations. Magic. A touch of wonder brightens the woman's eyes as she takes one of the proffered bands. After admiring the design, she slips the ring on her left ring finger, barely remembering where wedding bands are suppose to reside. She and Zane had never felt the need to be married, particularly in a world where the married were heavily taxed.

A quick smile, “You have good taste – husband.” Irony laces the light humor in her voice, “Beautiful.”

As the newlyweds enjoy their tokens of mutual bondage, the church fills up around them and, finally, the Godspeaker takes his place. Trista relaxes against the wooden back and proves more the still parishioner than her fidgety companion.

The story proves interesting, though Trista doesn't grasp the familiarity of it until further in when it finally dawns on her just who Aaron must be. It should have happened earlier, what with what they learned on the ferry, but Trista doesn't know all the ins and outs of the story. A few glances dart toward Chance to see his reaction, but the man seems more distracted than anything and soon she finds out why when she gratefully accepts a sip of wine. Make that a gulp.

The woman rises as the Godspeaker approaches them and adds her nods of appreciation to Chance's compliments, and hopes to at least find a more comfortable seat for their discussion.

"Of course, of course." the man replies to Chance's question, "I'm afraid I've been a little rude."

"This way, please."

He leads the way towards the altar, giving Trista and Chance a closer look at the figures upon it.  The female figure can now be seen to be holding what appears to be a hoop, carved in such a way that seems composed of numerous small fish, arranged nose to tail, as if swimming in a circle.

There is a doorway to one side of the chapel, and the godspeaker moves through it, and into a narrow corridor with several doors opening off it.  Stepping through one of those doors, he beckons his guests into a comfortably-furnished sitting room.  The walls of the room support a number of paintings, most of which look to be religiously themed.

A large window gives a view across the countryside beyond the town... bleak, rugged moorland, with scattered trees.

"Please, make yourselves at home.  Would you like tea?"

As he and his "wife" pass through the doorway, Chance is weighing his options. The people seem to have prophecies and stories that relate to the Questors, which means they might have information. It also could mean nothing, and he knows that, too. His job is to gather what he can and then try to sift it for truth.

Of course, if this place really has nothing of value for them, then it would be best to move on quickly.

As they pass down the corridor, he glances at Trista. Dare he speak the truth? Sure, it would cut to the heart of things, but it might stop them in their tracks, too.

When they enter the sitting room, Chance makes sure the door is firmly shut.

"My apologize, godspeaker," he says. "But we are in a hurry and we need information."

As he turns, his clothes flutter. Beneath the fabric, steel glints. The fabric gives way and reveals a shirt of silvered chain. Leather ties and straps ensure it fits tightly over a cloth undershirt. The jeans melt away to more armor, chain and boiled, blackened strips of thick leather. The longsword melts into a hefty sword.

Drama--the Butter & Jam on Chance's biscuit.

"I hope you'll forgive the deception, but we must travel with care. The enemy is always on our heels. I think you know something of that, though."

Even if he didn't, Chance guessed he might play along.

"These people in your sermon--Holy Aaron and so forth--we need to know they whole story. We need to know what happens to them."

From you, or from this lady in the water the kid talked about.

"Especially if there is a musician and a dark-haired woman, a warrior, among the stories."

Why put others first?
This message was last edited by the player at 22:31, Thu 24 Jan 2008.

“Not rude at all,” Trista quietly says as the pair follow the Godspeaker through the chapel and into the back. The woman notices the details of the architecture, not connecting special significance to anything in particular but it'll be stored away in her memory. As always, she pays attention to the lay-out of the building, the hallway, the doors, being very aware of her surroundings.

Trista moves toward the window, takes a quick look around, and turns back with the idea of politely declining the offer of tea. An eyebrow almost rises as Chance's clothing melds into something so not Chance. At least, not the Chance with whom she's been traveling.

Her first inclination would be to tighten her stance, have a hand on her machete, and be prepared. But most likely the transformation will put the Godspeaker on edge as it is, so the woman's stance actually softens with one hand gently laying along the windowsill. Trista's ready, but attempting to put the man at ease at the same time.

There's no beating around the bush as Chance plows ahead with what they both seek. Trista, not being particularly good with adults, keeps quiet, but she offers a reassuring nod to the man as if to say, 'We're friends here.'

Perhaps they'll get a glimpse of the future.

The godspeaker recoils, as Chance's garb changes before his eyes, and his first reaction is one of shock and horror, "Witchcraft!  Sorcery!"  The man's eyes widen, and his hands tremble.

And then, with a clear effort of will, he seems to draw on some inner strength, as he reaches for an object on the dresser behind him - an upright post, like a candlestick, with a design of six circles around a seventh, the seven interlocking like links of mail.  He brandishes the item towards Chance, occasionaly moving it in Trista's direction, "If you have come here to cause injury, then you have failed already!  You have no power here, Dark Ones.  Even this house stands upon Blessed Ground.  I banish you!  Back to the Abyss with you!"

Again, he starts to look concerned, as his guests refuse to be properly banished.

Weakly he thrusts the strange symbol towards Chance, who doesn't immediately burst into flames and vanish in a cloud of foul vapours.  Then the godspeaker's shoulders slump, and his eyes drop to the floor.

In a more resigned voice, he says, "Either I am mistaken, and you are not of Darkness, or you are far more powerful than my teachings have led me to expect..."

He trails off, and falls back into a chair behind him, still clutching what must be some sort of holy icon.  His cane clatters to the floor.

It doesn't work, of course; the whole 'put the man at ease' thing Trista had attempted. No, the man certainly didn't take to Chance's transformation. Brandishing terms like sorcery and witchcraft, the man clearly was on edge.

He gives up trying to dissipate the evil demons and Trista's stormy eyes turn compassionate. For the moment, she remains as she is, standing by the window. “We aren't here to hurt you or anyone else. We're just here for – knowledge.”

Carefully, slowly, with her hands open, Trista leaves her spot to pick up the fallen cane and lean it against the man's desk where he can easily reach it. “We didn't mean to frighten you.”

Glancing toward Chance, Trista clearly doesn't know how to salvage the situation and waits for the more experienced Lord to do so. Still moving slowly, the woman backs away toward the window again.

"Both, perhaps." Chance smiles. He reaches up to adjust his sunglass, still in place despite his otherwise medieval fashion. Good, the man is off guard. He likes that. He likes to keep things off balance.

"But we are not of darkness, nor are we interested in harming you. We're friends of a man named Aaron--and hand and one eye until recently--and a group of Questors. We couldn't help but notice similarities between your story and ours. It raised the natural question: is our Aaron the same as your Holy Aaron? No, we don't call him Holy Aaron--at least not with a straight face--but the similarities are undeniable. Perhaps if I told you our story, you could decide for yourself?"

The man remains where he is, and he keeps his eyes on Trista, stealing the occasional nervous glance at Chance.  He stays silent for a long while, his expression growing thoughtful, until, finally, he speaks...

"Would a servant of Darkness tell me the truth?" he asks, quietly, "I suspect not."

"Very well, tell me your tale.  With luck and faith, perhaps I can see what lays at the heart of it, truth or falsehood... "

And now he fixes his gaze on Chance, " ... and with more luck, you'll be punished for any untruths you do utter."  He gestures towards a small painting on the wall closest to the male visitor.  It depicts a woman, standing beside a lake, with fish leaping from the waves behind her.  "In this place, I'll not be the only one listening."